635 



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\l/ 






s Forgiven ?! 



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viz (f\ 



fn 



>ii A Sequel to Forsaken. 2i 

Ui — ^^ — (t> 

(j/ By John H. Wise. rf\ 

\*/ — tt (f\ 

•1/ NOBLESVILLE. IND. jfA\ 

■jg- v^ • S''S'')S'S'S''S''S'S''^'S'm''S'S'i8''^'S'S'''^'S' •2?'^ 



r\ 




Porgiveo 



A Sequel to Forsaken 



By John H. Wise. 



■n- 



NOBLESVILLE, IND. 
I SOS. 



/" 



25140 






'Oi'^RiOHT. i.89s. BY JOHN H, WJSK 
ALL RIO UTS RESERVED. 



.."^'"'■^r''r^r>ir^ T-yrrrtx?' 



if JMi3»1899 



TMP92-007653 



CHA.R.-\CTrE:RS. 



(tERAi.u Waynk, a man of destiny. 

KvA Vane, tlie country beauty. 

(hi'sv Mad(;i,, an old fortune teller. 

Sa.m Patch, a farm hand. 

Vivian Wavnf. Gerald's daughter. 

Mrs. Vane, Eva's mother. 

Hiram Hastings, a t ountry greenhorn. 

Mrs. Patch, Sam's wife, 

M AKV, a ma^d. 



FORGIVEN. 






PROLOG I F>. 

derald's home. Oerald with bowed head, seated alone. 
Lights in tlie room. dim. 

(1. "Deadl ]5oth dead! Xol a soul on earth left me 
whom I care for e\eel)t my ( hild. The iiyi's\'s words are com- 
ing true. 'I'he curse is crushing me still." 

Pauses. Rises, and moves restlessly to and fro. 

C"i. "There is no forgetfulness. No matter where I gn, the 
past is before me. Oh, those summer days in the old woods! 
What would I not give for one brief hour of their fond dream?" 

Crosses the room, and stands sadly before the portraits of 
\'i\ian and F.dith. 

(1. "'Poor Vivian! Poor Edith! If the grave ends all. they 
have tound peace now. Both loved me; both were true. Oh, 
Heaven, why did we meet — why did our life paths cross so 
fatally?" 

Returns to seat. \ ivian appears in the doorway. 

V. "Papa!" 

(i. "V'es, my pel." 

V. "May I come in?" 

O. "Certainly, my child." 

V. "It won't disturb you.'" 

(1. "No, no." 



c Fon<;i\KX. 

\'. "Ma\^ I turn on the lights? 1 don't like to see you sit 
in the shadows. It makes you look so lonely." 

G. "Ves." 

Vivian enters, turns the lights, and comes to his side. 

V. "I would like to talk to you awhile to night. May I.'" 

G. ''If you wish." 

V. "Whv are you always so silent, so sad.'^" 

G. ''i — 1 will tell you sometime, — sometime when vou are 
older. Then you can belter understand." 

v. ''X'ou love me, don't you.'" 

G. " f.ove you? With all my soul, child. Why do you 
ask?'' 

V. "Then you are never tired — never weaned »vith me?" 

(r. ''\'o, no. " 

V. "I have feared diat you were, sometimes. You sit so 
silent — so still. You have so little to say to me. I have 
watched you for hours, sometimes, and I don't believe that you 
remembered I was in the room." 

G. ''Forgive me. At times my thoughts overwhelm me, 
and I forget all else. Sometime you will know why. .Some- 
time you will understand what has made me so unhappy." 

V. "You don't look wicked to me. Did you ever do any 
one a wrong?'' 

G. "Yes, a cruel wrong." 

V. ''Did they forgive you?" 

G. "Yes, yes." 

V. "Are you sorry now, that you done so?"' 

G. "Sorry! Oh, Yivian,as God is mj' Judge, 1 would will- 
ingly give up my life, if by so doing I could right that wrong." 

\'. "Then you have not been so \ery bad. \'ou just made 
some awful mistake. That was all." 



fokl;i\'kx. 



(r. "Ves, a ttrrible mistake. A mistake that has luined 
other lives as well as mine." 

V. "I am sorry ior you, so sorry. I wouUi help vou if I 
could." 

O. "I know it, but alas! There can he no help. The 
fault was all mine and 1 must bear it, be;; r it to the end.'' 

.\ knock at the door. Gerald turns. Maid appears. 

G. "What is it, Mary.'" 

M. "There is an old woman outside, asking for vou. Sh;^ 

looks like a begger." 

('.. "Tell her I am busy, and cannot see her." 

M. "Yes, sir" 

Maid departs. \"ivian turns to (ier;dd. 

V. "Papa, you never talk to me about poor mamma. \\»\i 
never mention her name. Won't you tell me of her notv."'' 

(i. "Tell you what, my child.'" 

\'. "Did she love you.' Was >he good to you.'" 

G. "Yes; she could not liave been better." 

V. "Did you lovelier, too' ' 
. G. "Love her.' Why, what a (juestion, child. I never 
gave her an unkind word." 

V. "1 am glad of that, papa: so glad. Does her picture 
look like she did before she died.'" 

G. "Yes, very like." 

V. "She was beautiful, wasn't she.'" 

i'j. "Very beautiful." 

\'. "There seems a sadness about her face. Wasn't she 
hap[)y.' Did she have some sorrow?" 

Ci. ".Sorrovv' is sent to all, \'ivian. Xo one ever escapes." 

v. "Poor, poor mamma! Oh, if she could onl\' be with us 
now! Then we wouldn'.t be so lonely, would we.'" 

G. "Xo; not so lonely, m) pet." 



F()K<;ni:x. 

\'. "Whose picture is that 1»\ hers? I have often won'dered. 
I ha\e seen vou look at it so much. \'ou have never told me." 

(i. "r)nc whom 1 ome knew." 

V. ".-^he has a sweet face — sweet and heaTitiful." 

G. "Ves." 

\'. " Is slie dead, too.'" 

Ci. ".Ahis. yes. Long dead." 

Y . "Why, papa, there arc tears in your eyes. I didn't 
mean to hurt your feehngs. Why do you cry because I talk 
of her?'" 

G. ''1 — I did not kuow I did. Xe\er mind, my [)et. It is 
over now." 

\' . "N'ou said you knew her. Won't vou tell me of her? 
Did marnma know her too?" 

(}. "Ves." 

v. " Did she love her?" 

Ci. "I — I hope so." 

V. "Vou speak so strangely. 1 hardt\- understand. Did 
you love her too?" 

Gerald bows his head in anguish. 

\'. "Oh, {)apa, you don't answer. \'ou are crying again. 
Vou never cry about mamma. Why ilo ymi about her? Papa, 
was she Vivian?" 

Gerald starts wildly. 

G. "Vivian! That name on your lij)s! Child, what mean 
you.^" 

V. "1 don't know, but you do. Won't you tell me? Who 
was Vivian?" 

G. "Why — why you are \ivian, my ]jet." 

V. "No, no. I don't mean me. I mean some other 
Vivian." 

G. "What other Vivian?" 



FORGIVEX. !) 

Y. "The Vivian that you talk of in your dreams, the 
Vivian that you cry about. Many a night you have awakened 
nie calling her name." 

G. "In my dreams, child? Wasn't I calling you.''" 

V. "iVo, no, papa; not me. You were talking to her. You 
spoke of summer hours — of the woods, the river, the flowers, 
the green trees. It was not me, papa; not me." 

A knock at the door. Maid appears again. 
■ G. "Well Mary?" 

M. "The old woman is still outside. She will not leave 
the door. She says she must see you." 

G. "Perhaps you had better send her in for a moment. 
PU see what she wants and get rid of her." 

M. "Yes, sir." 

Maid departs. Gypsy Madge enters, in begger's disguise. 

G. "Well, Madame, what is it you wish?" 

M. "Charity, sir; charity for a poor old woman in want." 

Gerald hands her a coin. 

G. "Will this help you?" 

Madge looks at it curiously. 

M. "What? Gold! Haven't ye made a mistake?" 

G. "Xo. Take it with you." 

M. "Thank ye! Thank ye, kind sir. An old woman's 
blessings be with ye. May ye never know the pangs of want." 

Madge moves slowly away, gazing at the coin. 

M. "Gold! Gold! Ah, how it glitters! ]kit there is a 
curse upon it — a blighting curse. It is the price of tears, of 
woe, of heartaches.'' 

Gerald starts wildly. 

G. "Woman, what mean you?" 

M. "Nothing, nothfng! Why do ye listen to an old 



10 FORGIVEN. 



woman's talk. It is like a child's prattle, and full as mean- 
ingless. What should she know of unloved wives and broken 
hearts — of forgotten and neglected graves.' Good night to ye, 
kind sir, good night, and pleasant dreams.'' 

Madge turns for a moment in the doorway, throws back the 
coin with a wild movement as if spurning it, then departs. 
Vivian picks it up in surprise and hands it to Gerald. 

v. "See, papa, she has given back your gold." 

G. '*Yes, yes, she must be crazed. Tell Mary never to 
admit her again." 

Vivian departs. Gerald rises to his feet. 

(i. "It is the gypsy in disguise. There is no mistaking 
that horrid voice. What can her motive be.' Why should 
she spy upon me here?" 

Turns to the portrait of Vivian. 

G. "Her grave neglected! Oh, Heaven, yes, but not for- 
gotten. Oh, Vivian! Vivian!" 

Hows his head in anguish. Vivian appears. 

V. "Papa, why do you speak so strangely.'" 

G. "Never mind my pet, let it pass. How would you like 
to leave here for awhile — to go to the country, where the 
bright sunshine is never dimmed by smoke; where the bird* 
sing, and the flowers bloom, and the woods are waving green?" 

V. "Are you in earnest? Do you mean it?" 

G. "Yes." 

V. "You will really take me?" 

(r. "Yes, if you wish to go." 

V. "I do papa; I do." 

G. "We will go then, my pet. We will leave this great 
I city with all its noise and shadows and sins, behind. W'c will 



wander together in the suninier sunshine on the river bank 
and gather flowers." 

V. "Wild flowers?" 

G. "Yes; wild flowers. Violets, diiisies, and — and roses." 

V. "Papa, you are crying again. I wish you wouldn't. It 
makes me feel so bad. Let aic sing some song for you, won't 
you.''" 

G. "What shall it be?" 

V. " 'There'll ^"ome a Time.' 

G. "Well." 

Vivian sings: 

V. " 'Why are you sad. papa, my darling. 

Why are those tears tailing today. 
Why do you look at me so. strangely, 

Have I done wrong, tell me I pray? 
Let me know all, papa, my darling. 

Tell me. I pray of mother dear, 
Why did she die, why did she leave us, 

Why is her name never heard here? 
I never felt her arms about me, 

N'or her sweet lips prest close to mine, 
Ld give my life only to see her, 

Tell me dear, papa, will there corne a time.-*' " 

CLRTAIN. 



12 FORGIVKN. 



ACT I. SCENE I. 

Sam's home. Sam seated outside, with a newspaper. Time, 
noon. Mrs. Patch appears in the doorway. 

Mrs. P. "Samuel!" 

S. "Yes." 

Mrs. p. "Dinner's ready." 

S. "All right, Mariah." 

Mrs. Patch disappears in the house. Sam continues read- 
ing. Mrs. Patch reappears. 

Mrs. P. "Sarnuell" 

S. "I hear you, Mariah." 

Mrs. P. "Do you want any dinner?" 

S. "Well, I reckon." 

Mrs. P. "Come, then-" 

S. "All right." 

Mrs. Patch disappears. Gypsy Madge comes up, unper- 
ceived by Sam. A thrust of her staff and the paper is torn 
from his hand. He springs to his feet with a ciuick start of 
surprise. 

S. "The gypsy, by thunder! Well, old lady, and .where 
did you come from? Have a seat, won't you?" 

Sam lifts up the chair and places it before her. Madge 
hurls it away with her staff- Sam gazes froai it to her as if 
in perplexity. 

S. "Don't want a seat very bad, do you? All right Mrs. 
Methusella, just as you please." 

M. ''Awake, ye son of toil, awake!" 



forgivp:n\ is 

S. "Awake? Guess I am, you old sinner. What do you 
want, anyhow?" 

Mrs. Patch appears. 

Mrs. P. ".Samuel!" 

S. "Mariah, I wish youVi keep still." 

Mrs. P. "Aint you never coming to dinner? I'm j^etting 
tired of waiting. Everything's getting cold." 

S. "Don't care if it is. You go back in that kitchen, and 
quit bothering me. Don't you see I've got company?" 

Mrs. Patch disappears. 

M. 'I am ready to talk. Are ye ready to listen?" 

S. "Yes, if I can get rid of that better half of mine, for a 
minute. Thought you must have something to say, or you 
wouldn't have been here. Guess it's the first time you ever 
paid me a visit. What's up?" 

M. 'Have ye forgotten the past?" 

S. "The past? Well, I reckon not. There's been a few 
things liappened around here that won't be lost track of in one 
lifetime. What about it?" 

M. "Remember ye the hawk — the one accursed — the one 
who broke her heart?" 

S. "Say, old lady, don't you talk about that chap unless 
you want to rile me. Consarn him, 1 never did have any ulse 
for him. I always despised him. I — " ' 

Mrs. Patch appears. 

Mrs. P. "Samuell" 

S. "Mariah, do you want to get hurt?" 

Mrs. P. "No." 

S. "Do you see that kitchen?" 

Mrs. P. "Guess I aint blind." 

S. "Get inside of it, then, and don't you show yourself 
again until I call you, or there'll be the biggest racket around 



]4 FOR(;iVKX. 

here that ever tore up these diggings. I've stood your inter- 
ruptions just about as long as I'm going to." 

JMrs. Patch disappears. 

M. "He's coming back!" 

S. "Not here.'" 

M. "Aye, here." 

S. "Soon?" 

M. "The hour is at hand." 

S. "Say, old lady, aint you mistaken.'^ Why would he want 
to come back again.' He couldn't harm the dead." 

M. "Fool, ye forget." 

S. "What?" 

M. "There is another." 

S. "Who?" 

M. "The younger — the one yet living— the one like her." 

S. "Great goodness, old lady, you're right. I never 
thought of her. Vou mean Miss Eva?" 

M. "Aye." 

S. "She remembers him, 'though. He couldn't fool her. 
She wouldn't listen to him. She — " 

Mrs. Patch appears. 

Mrs. P. "Samuel!" 

Sam grabs up a corn cob and tlirows it at lier. She dodges 
out of sight, then again ai)pears. 

Mrs. P. "Stay out there 'till doomsday if you want to. I 
won't call you again if you never get another bite. I — " 

Sam throws again. Mrs. Patch dodges and disappers. Sam 
turns to Madge. 

S. "Go ahead, old lady. Guess the storm is oyer for an- 
other minute." 

M. "I have warned ye. 'Tis enough, and I go. Remem- 



FOJICINKX. 'lf> 

bei? The hawk is ready for another victim, and the prey is 
here. Be on yer guard. Watch!" 

S. "All right, old lady, I will. Don't be in a hurry. 
Come again." 

Madge departs. Sam scratches his head in perplexity. 

S. "Well this is a ([ueer go, and no mistake. That old 
witch has got some strange notions in her hsad. Thinks that 
scoundrel is coming back again, and is going to bring harm 
to Miss Eva. Can't believe il, but Til take her advice; I'll 
watch. Well, I guess I'd better see how Mariah and the 
oinner is getting along. 'Spect she's as mad as a hornet, but 
I can't help it. I was bound to hear what the gypsy had to 

say." 

Sam starts toward the doorway. Hiram comes running up. 
H. "Sam! SamI" 

S. "Thunderationl Another interruption. Guess that 
dinner will be cold before I get it, if this sort of thing keeps up 
much longer. Wonder what the mischief is to pay now?" 
H. "Sam! Sam!" 

S. "Hello, there, Hiram! What's up?" 
H. "Oh, Sam, come cjuick!" 

S. "Come where? What's the matter' Your face looks 
like a red head's top knot. What you been running so for on 
this hot day, anyhow?" 

H. "Oh Sam, the fence is down, and the cows in the corn- 
field." 

S. "Consarn them pesky cows. Theyr'e more bother than 
they're worth. How many's in?" 

H. "All of them. There aint a one out." 
S. "Plague take the luck! That means work at once, 
dinner or no dinner. Can you help me get them out, Hiram?" 



](; FORr;iVP:X. 

H. "Yes; but I'd like to have a drink of water first. I'm 
about choked." 

S. "Of course. Why didn't you say so sooner? I never 
thought of it." 

Sam hunts for a cup. 

S. "Nary a cup here, consarn it. Guess she's got them 
all in the kitchen. Mariah?" 

Silence. 

S. "Mariah, I say?" 

Silence. 

S. "No answer. Just what I expected. She's got the sulks 
sure as fate. Guess I'll have to go in and get one myself." 

Sam attempts to enter. Mariah dashes a pan-full of flour 
in his face. He jumps back in confusion. Hiram laughs. 

H. "Sam, what did she do that for?" 

S. "Don't know. Can't say. You never can tell what a 
woman means. About the time you think you know her, you 
find out you don't know her.'' 

H. "She didn't do it on purpose, did she?" 

S. "How do you reckon I know? I didn't ask her. Say, 
Hiram?'' 

H. "Well." 

S. "I'll give you a dollar if you'll go in that kitchen and 
ask Mariah for a cup." 

H. "Oh, Sam, I'd like to have the dollar awful well, but 
I'll tell you, I'd rather not go in.'' 

S. "Why?" 

H. "I'm kind of afraid she might dose me, too." 

S. "You're the biggest coward I ever saw. You aint got 
the nerve of a bob tailed jack rabbit. She wouldn't hurt you. 
Well, I'll show you, if you're afraid, I aint." 



FOlKilVKX. 1' 

Sam rushes toward the doorway. Mariah dashes a pan ot 
water full in his face. He steps back in anger. Hiram laughs 
loudly. 

S. "Shut up, you infernal idiot. What you laughing at 
anyhow?" 

H. "Oh, Sam, I can't help it. You don't know how funny 
you look. It wasn't an accident, was it?" 

S. "Accident be consarned. I'll show her." 

Sam sjirings inside the kitchen. Conies out th.e next instant 
pursued by Mariah with upraised broom. 

H. "'Look out, Sam; look out: She's after you. She's a 
coming!" 

ACT I. SCENE II. 
The woods. Eva. singing in the distance. 

K. " 'On the banks of a lone river. 

When the sweet spring-time did fall. 
Was a farmer's lovely daughter, 

The fairest of them all. 
For his bride a lover sought her, 
And a winning tongue had he; 
On the banks of that lone river, 
None so gay as she.' " . 
Eva appears. She is grown to womanhood, and is the liv- 
ing image of her once lovely sister who is sleeping under the 
daisies — poor, forsaken Vivian. 

E. "There is scarcely a flower left in the old woods. I 
wonder what has killed them? Once the hills were covered 
with them." 
Pauses. 
E. "I wish I could have found some wild roses. I know 



IS FOKGIVKX. 

that mother vv'ill be disappointed! She always asks for them 
because Vivian loved them. I'll cross the river, and see if I 
can find s(jme there." 

Pauses. 

E. "Oh, those long gone summer daysl How well I re- 
member them yet! Where is (lerald now.' Is he yet living, I 
wonder.' If so, can he have yet forgotten.'" 

The past, with all its heart-aches, rises before the young 
girl, as she speaks. She remembers Gerald's tr)Sts with 
Vivian, the fatal letter, the awful desiiair and anguish of her 
poor sister, then the last sad scenes when youth and beauty 
withered, and all was ended in madness and the grave. Would 
he ever come back again — ever visit again the scenes forever 
cursed by his falsit).' 

Sam comes up. 

S. "Oh, Miss Eva!" 

Eva turns. 

E. "Why, Sam, you startled me." 

S. "I've been hunting you for a!i hour. I've news that 
will surprise you." ^^ 

E. "Good news, I hope." 

S. "No; can't say that it is. It don't suit me a bit. That 
scoundrel of a city chap is coming back." 

Eva starts. 

E. "Not here, surely?" 

S. "Yes." 

E. "^'Who told you.'" 

S. "The gypsy." 

E. "It must be so, then. I never knew her words to fail. 
But I cannot understand it. Why should he come here now?" 

S. "It's mighty hard to tell. Got some scheme in his 



head, I'll bet. Consarn him, I'd like to kick him away every 
time he came back." 

E. "Sam, you hate him still?" 

S. "Yes; I don't forget how he treated her. I think of it 
every time 1 see her grave. 1 )on't you ever grieve yourself 
to death like she did.'' 

E. ''No danger, Sam." 

S. "I hope not. Well, I've told you, and I'll go to work. 
Keep your eyes open, and don't let him ever fool you." 

K. "No, no." 

Sam departs. 

i:. "(herald coming back! Can it indeed be true? I'll go 
and tell mother. 1 wonder what she will say.^'' 

Eva departs. Gerald comes up. Walks restlessly. The 
lines of remorse show upon his face, but no gray threads are 
yet in his dark hair. Me is slender still— slender as in the 
days when Vivian loved him. 

G. "1 cannot keep way. It is useless to try. As long as 
ill'e lasts, the memories of this place will draw me back. 
Oh, God, I can see her yet. 

As in that dim hour. 
So sweet, so innocent, so fair, 

The wildwood's loveliest flower." 

Pauses. 

G. "Does the grave end all' Is death oblivion, or is she 
conscious still? ()h, Vivian, if 1 could only have known what 
your fate would be if I left you, I would rather have died than 
ever turned from you on this river bank." 

Vain words! The past cannot be changed. He has mapped 
out his own course, and now he must drink to the dregs, the 
bitterness of his fatal mistake. The fair young face, with its 



■20 FOlir.lVEN. 

mass of clustering cuiis, is withering in the toinl). The voice 
he loved, can never reach him again. In vain — ttternally in 
vain, his anguished cry of "Vivian! \'ivian!" 

(t. "The old trysting tree is dead and gone. Scarce a 
flower is left to bloom. Surelx the shadow of tlie cur^e rests 
here still." 

Vivian comes uj). 

V. "\Vhere are the flowers, papa^ I have looked all 
around. I can find only a few." 

G. "I don't know. It seems they are gone." 

V. "You told iTie there would be many." 

C"r. "I supposed there would. The hills used to be covered 
with them.'' 

V. "Violets and daisies?" 

G. "Yes; violets, daisies and — and roses." 

V. "WMiy, papa, you are crying. Why do you always cry 
when you talk of vv'ild roses.'" 

G. "I — I will tell you somelime. It is a long story — too 
long to tell now." » 

V. "It makes you feel sad to think of tliem, doesn't it.''" 

G. "Always sad, my pet." 

Madge appears in the distance. She moves slowly, with 
the aid of her staff. Her face is so old and withered that it is 
horrid in ita hideous ugliness. Vivian sees her. 

V. "Look, papal What an awful looking old woman." 

Gerald starts wildly at sight of the gypsy. 

G. "That fiend again! Can she never die? I wonder if 
she is coming again to curse me?" 

V. "Why, papa, you know her?" 

(t. "Y'es." 

V. ''Who is she'" 



f<)1u;!Y):n. 21 

G. "A wanderer of ihe woinls— a gypsy." 

V. "A fortune teller?" 

(). A'es." 

V. "Did she ever tell youi fortunt?"' 

(i. "'No, no." 

\'. "Then what do yOu mean about her curses?" 
(.;. "Hush, hush. I can't tell you now Listen!" 
Madge comes up. Her restless, piercing, deep sunk eyes 
gleam lil<e coals of fire, as her gaze fikes itself upon (lerald. 

M. "Wretch, why are ye here again? ^'er work is done." 

Pauses. 

M. "D'ye hear me? Can't ye speak? What seek ye now?" 

("r. "I'eace, woman." 

M. "Never! Never!" 

(t. "Have mercy. I hav« suffered." 

M. "Not as she, but the curse shall bring ye to that yet. 
It shall follow ye like a shadow to the grave!" 

V. "Papa, what does she mean?" 

G. "xNever mmd. Don't listen to her. She's talking 
wild." 

M. "Wretch, ye know my words are true.'' 

Vivian clasps Gerald's arm. 

V. "Papa, papa, come. Don t stay any longer. I am 
afraid. I—" 

Eva's voice, raised in song, sounds in tlie woods. Gerald 
turns as if stricken with some sudden and awful terror, 
Vivian stops short. 

E. " 'On the banks of that lone river. 

When brown autumn spread its store. 
Then 1 saw the farmer's daughter. 
But she smiled no more. ' 



•22 For?(in'i;x. 

Gerald turns wildly to Vivian. Madge looks on in i^riin 
silence. 

G. "Child, child, listen!" 

V. '"1 am listening, papa." 

ii. "Quick, tell me; am 1 mad or dreaming, or is some one 
singing?" 

V. "Why, papa, what makes you look and speak so 
strangely.' Of course there is sonie one singing." 

G. "No, no; it cannot be." 

V, "Yes, yes. Don't you hear.'" 

Again the words of the song come to them. 

E. ■' 'For the summer grief had brought her, 
And the lover false was he; 
On the banks of that lone river, 
None so sad as she.' 

Gerald gazes wildly in tlie distance. 

G. "That voice! That voice! The dead can not come 
back. Oh, Heaven, what does it mean?" 

Eva comes nearer. 

V. "Look, papa, look! 'Idiere she is! — there is the singer 
— and why, papa, don't you see? Her face is like the picture 
at home — the picture by mamma's. Ycni told me she was 
dead. Wasn't it true? Is she Vivian?" 

Gerald does not answer. He cannot. • His t'ace is ashen 
with fear. Terror is in his dark eyes. Eva, young and 
beautiful, Eva, with Vivian's face, Vivian's form, is before liim. 
Wildly he gazes upon her. To the wretched man, she is no 
living girl' — only a spectre of the dead, the one killed by his 
falsity. For an instant he stands like one in a dream; then 
with a cry — an anguished cry, he reels backward. 

G. "Vivian! Vivian! For the love of Heaven, have 
mercy! Don't haunt me now!" 



K(»K(n\i:N'. 



•23 



\'ivian bends over him with a piercing cry of fear. 

\'. "Papa! Papa!" 

Madge step;? toward him, her eyes gleamirag wildly. 

M. "The curse strikes deep.. He remembers. '7'is well. 
Suffer ye wretch: ye deserve it. Suffer, I say!" 

\'. ''Papa, papa. Look, speak to me! Why are you so 
j)ale? ^\'hat is the mattei.'" 

Vivian gazes down into his face with childish terror. She 
clasps him wildly. 

V. "He does not look at me: he does not speak. What 
shall I do.' WHiat can I do? Oh, papa, papa!" 

Eva, white with fear, rushes up with flying footsteps. 

E. "Oh, sir, what is the matter.-'''' 

Vivian turns from Cierald's prostrate form and wildly 
waves her back. 

\' . "Awa\! Away! Would you kill my papa.'" 

Madge grows wildly excited. She glowers upon the stricken 
man. Her voice is awful in its hatred — its devilishness. 

M. "Aye, kill! Why should she not.' Come on, cliild; ye 
shall avenge the forsaken. Strike him dead with yer face!" 



CURTAIN. 



FORiMVEX, 



ACT II. SCENE J. 

The woods. Sum appears. 

S. "There goes the sun under a cloud again. That's the 
second time it's been shut in this morning. If it don't mean 
rain inside of twenty-four hours, I'm fooled. Hope to good- 
ness it will hold off until I can get tlie rest of that hay up." 

Pauses. 

S. "Haven't seen anything of that scoundrel of a city chap 
yet. Wonder if he has come back.'* Consarn hiar, I'd like to 
see him and tbe gypsy meet. I'll bet she'd make things hot 
for him. I — " 

Sam stops short as Hiram comes up. 

H. 'tHello, Sam!" 

S. "Hello, yourself!" 

H. "I'd like to speak to you a minute, if you aint in too 
i)ig a hurry." 

S. "All right. (jO ahead. What's on your niind?'' 

H. "I'll tell you if you won't give it away''* 

S. "Of course not. What is it.'" 

H. '"This: I'm getting tired of living alone. I've been a 
thuiking some about settling down." 

S. 'Getting married, you mean?" 

H. "Yes." 

S. "Good idea. Tried it m3self, and can't complain. 
G(;t y(ju a girl picked out, I suppose?"' 

H. "Ves." 

S. "'JTiink she'll have vou.-*" 



FORGIVKX, 



H. "That's what 1 don'l know, and wanted to talk to you 
about. I'm kind of afraid to ask her for fear she'll say no." 

S. "Nonsense. There's nothing like trying. If she won't 
have you, there's others that will. Every man can get married 
if he wants to. VVho's the girl.'" 

H. "Don't know whether I ought to tell or not. I would- 
n't have it known for the world." 

S. "All right. Just as you please. Hope you'll get her. 
Good day!" 

Sam turns abruptly as if to go. 

H. "Say, hold on a minute, Sam. Don't be in too big a 
hurry. If I thought I could trust you, and you wouldn't 
make fun, I'd tell you." 

S. "Tell, then, (juess you ought to know me." 

H. "All right; 1 will; but don't you ever hint it to a living 
soul. I've been a thinking of her for a long time, and I'd give 
anything to get her." 

S. "Yes; but tell me who's the girl.'" 

H. "Oh, Sam; it's Miss Eva." 

S. "Miss Eva! (lood gracious, Hiram. I'd never have 
thought it. You'll be m luck if you can get her. She's the 
best girl in the whole country." 

H. "I know it. Do you think I'd stand any chance? Do 
you think she'd have me?" 

S. "Don't know. Couldn't say. There's only one way 
you can find out." 

H. "How's that?" 

S. "Ask her." 

H. "Oh, Sam, I don't know how." 

S. "It's as easy as falling off a log." 



H. "Oh, Sam, help me oul, won't you? You ask her for 
me. I'll do anything for you if you will." 
S. "Oh, no; nary a time." 
H. "Why?" 

S. "That's a job cN'er}' chap's got to do for himself." 
H. "Won't you tell me how, then?" 

S. "Thai's different, (niess I will. There's lots of ways, 
Lut the (juickest is the best. You want to gel it over with as 
quick as you can, don'i \'ou?" 
H. "Yes." 

S. "All right, then. The ne.xt lime you see her, you go 
right up to her and say: 'Miss Eva, I think you're sweeter 
than sugar plums and molasses candy. Will you have me?' 
H. "Sam, you're a making fun of me." 
S. "Oh, no " 

H. "Is that the way you asked?" 

S. "Oh course. Do you think I'd a told you if it hadn't 
been?" 

H. "No, but who told you how?" 

S. ''Nobody. I overheard " 

H. 'Oh!" 

S. "Well, I've got to go now. Hope you'll have good luck. 
Brace up. That's half the battle. Let me know what she 
says, the next time you see me." 
H. "Well" 

Sam departs. Hiram stands and shakes his head as if in 
doubt. 

H. "What did he laugh so for? I believe he was making 
fun of me. Well, I don't care if he was. I'll ask her anyhow. 
It can't kill me.'' 

Hiram departs. Eva comes up. 

E. '"\Vhere is Oerald I wonder? I wish I could see him 



again. He is cliangcd but iiandsorne still. No wonder Viv- 
ian loved him." 

Pauses. 

E. "His wife dead! I can hardly realize it I remember 
how proud she looked. How lonely he must be with only his 
little girl " 

Madge comes up. 

M. "Child, I have found ye at last." 

K. "VVhv, Madge, have you been looking for me.''" 

M. ''Aye, all through the wooos. Tell me, have ye seen 
him agair;.''" 

E. "Who?" 

M. "The hawk — the one accursed — the one whose falsiiy 
broke her heart." 

E. '"Yes." 

M. "Child, beware of him — bev/are of him as ye would the 
scorpion that strikes to kill." 

E. "Madge, have you had some dream about me?" 

M. "No." 

E. "Some omen then, some warning of woe?" 

M.. "No, I need them not, for ye are like her." 

E. ".Madge, you told her fortune, once. Tell mine now." 

M. "Child, I dare not." 

E "Why?" 

M. '"I saw only shadows for her — 1 might see the same 
for ye." 

E. "If so, let me know it." 

M. "No, child, no. I shall only warn ye. But look! 
There he is. He comes. See, his eye is on ye now!" 

Gerald comes up. Despite himself he trembles as he looks 
upon Eva. It seems stranger than any dream to see another 



FORGIVEIV. 



v.ith Vivian's face. )5y an effort he at length controls him- 
self, and his tones are steady as he addresses her. He pays 
no attention to the gypsy. . 

G. "Good morning, Eva!" 

E. "Good morning, sii.'' 

(t. "I saw you from the bridge, and so came over. I hope 
I am not intruding.'"' 

E. "Certainly not, sir." 

G. "Could you spare time for a short walk? You were 
old enough to remember much of the past, and I would like to 
speak to you of — of my lost love, Vivian." 

His voice almost fails him as he speaks that name — the 
dearest of all earthly names to him. 

E. "Yes, sir. Madge excuse me, please. I will return 
soon." 

Eva turns to Gerald. Madge steps wildly forward and 
grasps her arm . 

M. "Hold, child! Ye shall not!" 
E. "Madge you forget yourself. I am ready, sir." 
Gerald and Eva depart. Madge gazes after them, wildly, 
fiercely. 

M. "She goes! She heeds me not. She will not be warn- 
ed. She has looked upon him and she is blinded— blinded!" 

Sam comes up. Gazes after them in consternation. 

S. "Well, if this don't beat the mischief! Never would 
have thought it — never! Are women all fools, or what?" 

Madge turns to him. 

M. "Eook, ye scoffer — ye doubter of my words! What 
think ye now?" 

S. "Well, old lady, I'll tell you frankly, it gets- me. It 



i-OKGIVEN. 2'' 

beats all tarnation and no mistake. I can't understand it— 
I cant for a fact.'' 

ACT II. SCENE II. 
Eva's home. Mrs. Vane appears in the doorway. Lines 
■of sorrow are upon her face. Life has never been the same 
since Vivian's death. Man's falsity has forever shadowed 
that humble home. 

Mrs. V. "What a hot day it is. There isn't a cloud in the 
sky. The sun almost burns. I hope Sam will be careful and 
not overwork the horses." 

Steps outside and gazes down the roadway.. 
Mrs. V. "Eva!" 
E. "Yes, mother." 

Mrs. V. "Will you come here a minute? There is a man 
and a little girl down the road. Sam has stopped plowing, 
and is talking to hmi. His form looks strangely familiar." 
Eva comes outside. 
E. "I will see, mother." 

Mrs. V. ''Look! He has stepped from the road, now, and 
is standing by the fence. Who is it?" 
Eve gazes in the distance. 
E. "I can't tell to a certainty, but I beUeve it is Mr. 

Wayne." 

Mrs. V. "Oh, Eva, that man again! Do you think he is 

coming here?" 

E. "I am sure I do not know, mother." 

Mrs. V. 'I hope he will not. I never want to speak to 

him again." 

E. "Mother, it is wrong to hold haired. He may have 
repented. If so, you should forgive." 



:^() FOROIVKNT. 

hlvs- V. "Yes; but I think of her, and 1 cannot. If it had 
not been !'or hira, she aiight have been living today- His 
talsity killed l.-jr just as surely as if he had driven a knife to 
her heart. Oli, Eva, you don't know what suffering it was 
for me to see her fading day by day, and knowing that he was 
the cause." 

E. "I can imagine, mother." 

Mrs. V. "Look! Is he still talking to Sam? The sun 
blinds my eyes so I can scarcely see." 

E. "Yes; but the little girl is coming this way." 

Mrs. V. "Comin'g here, do you think?" 

E. "1 believe so, mother." 

Mrs V. "What can he mean by sending her here?" 

E. "Indeed I do not know." 

Mrs. V. "Have you heard her name yet?" 

E. "Yes; it is Vivian." 

Mrs, V. "Vivian! Oh, Eva, has he named her for the 
dead?" 

E. "I believe so. Look! Oh, mother, isn't she sweet? 
ni meet her." 

Vivian approaches timidly. Eva goes up to her. 

E. "Vivian! is this indeed you?" 

V. "Yes; papa is talking to a man down the road. The 
sun was so hot he told me to come to the house. I did not 
like to come alone, but he said you would not care.'* 

E. "Certainly not. I am glad you came. Come in. I 
want mother to see you." 

The two go up to Mrs. Vane. 

E. "Mother, this is the little girl of v/hom I told you — Mr. 
Wayne's daugter." 

Mrs. V. "Yes; come here, child. Let me see you." 

Vivian goes up to her timidly. 



KnH(iiv:-:x. 31 

Mrs. V. '"Dark hair, dark eyes, sl<^ndcr Inr.Ui. Cb.ild, you 
are like your father." 

V. "Yes: papa savs I do not look any like inamnia." 
Mrs. V. "Vo'.ir nuunma is dead, is she nut.'" 
V. "Yes; she died a long time ago. I cannot remember 
her. We are all alone, papa and I. It seems so nice to get 
in the shade acain I was never out in the sunshine so much 
before. Cxudd 1 .^et a drink of water, please? I am very 
thirsty." 

Mrs. Y. "Certainly, certainly, child. 1 forgot it. Eva, 

will you get her a drink.^" 
E. "Yes, mother " 
Eva departs. 

Mrs. V. "The country is all nevr to you, isn't il?" 
X . "Yes; I was never awav frotn the city before 
■Mrs. Y. "Oo you like it?" 

V. "Very much. I think it beautiful. 1 love to see the 
wide fields and waving trees. 1 never grow tired looking at 
them." 

Mrs. V. 'i)oes it seem nicer to you than the city?" 
\'. "Much nicer. ] n the city there is nothing but houses 
and tall buildings and deafening noise and clouds of smoke. 
Here everything seems peaceful and happy." 
Eva returns. 

E. "Here, Vivian, is a good cool drink for you." 
V. "Thank you ever so much. It seems to me as if I had 
known you a long tim.e." 
E. "Why?" 

Y. "You look just like the picture at home by mamma's." 
E. "It is my sister's." 
V. "Wasn't her name Vivian?" 
E. "Yes." 
V. "Papa would never tell me, but I thought so. He 



3-2 FOROIVKN". 

often calls her name in his dreams. I have seen him stand 
before her picture for hours, crying, but never saying a word. 
Sometimes 1 think he must have liked her better than mamma." 

Eva turns to Mrs. Vane. 

E . " M ot h e r , yo ui hear.' 

Mrs. V. "Yes, yes." 

V. "Look! There comes papa, now. Oh, Papa!" 

Vivian runs to greet Gerald. 

Mrs. V. "Eva, will you meet him first? I cannot." 

E. "If you wish, mother." 

Mrs. Vane enters the house. 

G. "Well, my pet, you found the way?" 

V. "Yes, and oh, papa, I am acquainted already." 

G. "I am glad to hear it. I thought you would be soon. 
Won't you get me a flower? I see some lovely ones over there 
by the walk." 

V. "Yes." 

Vivian runs to get the flower. Gerald moves toward the 
house. After ten years he is again near the threshold of the 
home he has blighted. The memory of it all is before him 
now. When last he had entered that dooryard, he had bteii 
welcomed by Vivian, Despite himself his face pales, and his 
heart almost fails him as he goes up to her sister. 

G. "Good morning, Eva!" 

E. "Good morning, sir. Won't you come in?" 

G. "No, thank you. This is intruding too much I fear. 
Could I see your mother for a moment?" 

E. "Yes, sir. I will call her. Mother!" 

Mrs. V. "Yes, Eva." 

E. "Step this way, please." 

Mrs. Vane appears. 



F()Rr;!VKX. 8:5 

G. "(iood morning, niadanie!" 

As best he can, Gerald meets her gaze. 

Arrs. V. '"Oh, sir, how can you come here again?" 

Mrs. Vane trembles as she speaks. The i;rave of the dead 
seems to rise between her and the man who has again dared 
to come to her home. 

G. "Forgive me. It is for my child's sake," 

Mrs. V. "I — I do not understand, sir." 

G. "A word will explain. I am forced to be away for a 
i'cw days, and I hoped to leave her in your care. 4 dread trust, 
ing her to strangers." 

Mrs. V. ''1 hardly know what to say, sir. I have nothing 
against her. She — " 

E. "Mother, let her stay. She will be company for us 

Mrs. V. "Eva, will it be for the best.''" 

E. "Yes, yes." 

Vivian comes up with the flower. 

Mrs. V. "Child, come here." 

Vivian goes up to her. 

Mrs. V. "How would you like to stay with us here in the 
country for a few days?" 

V. "Oh, ever so much. I like Eva. I am sure I should 
have a nice time.'* 

Mrs. V. ''Wouldn't you be lonesome while your father 
was away?" 

V. "No; not with Eva. 1 could go with her to the woods, 
every day, Couldn't 1 Eva?" 

E. "Certainly." 

Mrs. V. "Child, our plain house and plain surroundings 
are all different from the city, but if you can be contented, 
you are welcome to stay." 

Madge comes up. 



34 FORGIVEN. 

M. "Never! Never!'^ 

E. "Madge!" 

M. "Are ye mad — blind? Don't ye know? Can't ye see? 
It is all a trick — a trap!" 

E. "Hush, Madge, hush!" 

M. "Never!" 

Turns wildly to Gerald. 

M. "Curse ye, ye can fool them, but ye can't fool me. I 
can see yer game, and ye shall never play it. I'll watch ye as 
the hawk watches it's prey, and this time, if ye bring harm I'll 
spare not. This time the gypsy strikes!" 



ACT II. SCENE III. 

The woods. Eva, singing, in the distance- 

E. " * 'Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone, 
All her lovely companions. 

Are faded and gone. 
No flower of her kindred, 

.No rosebud is nigh. 
To reflect back her blushes. 

Or give sigh for sigh.' " 

Eva appcclrs. 

E. "These June days will soon be over. How rare they 
are — how perfect. I don't believe I could ever grow tired of 
them.'' 

Pauses. 

E. "Once Gerald roamed here vvith Vivian. Under these 
same old trees their vows were spoken. The woods were as 



K<)}i(iIVEX. :^5 

lovely then as now — the skies as peaceful. Oh, how the 
memories of those summer hours must haunt him yet!" 

Pauses. 

E. "He loved her. How sad he looks when he talks of 
the past. I cannot help pitying him. I hope mother will for- 
give him." 

Turns as if to depart. Hiram comes up. 

H. "Oh, Miss Eva!" 

E. "Well, sir." 

H. "I'd like to speak to you a minute." 

E. "Yes, sir." 

H. "Nice v/eather we're having." 

E. "Very fine weather, sir." 

H. "If the wind keeps in the south it is liable to bring 
rain 'though." 

E. "Perhaps." 

Eva moves as if to depart. 

H. "Say, don't be in a hurry. Miss Eva. I've got some- 
thing I want to tell you." 

E. "Proceed, sir." 

H. "You've known me a long time, haven't you.'*" 

E. "Quite a while, sir." 

H. "Never heard anything very bad about me.'"' 

E. "No. Kut speak (juickly, sir. I am in a hurry. 
What is it you wish to say.?" 

H. "I'm trying to tell you. The fact is, I hardly know 
how to say it. I — I — ." 

E. "You seem confused, sir. What is the matter.'" 

H. "Oh, Miss Eva. I want to get married." 

E. "Oh, that's it is it.' Very well, sir. I am sure I have 
no objections." 

H. "And I don't know whether she'll have me or not." 



3(i FOJiniVEN. 

E. "You want me to speak a good word for you, I suppose?" 

H. "No — yes; no — yes. I — T mean that 1 — that you — 
that I — . Oh, Miss Eva, I can't say what I mean." 

E. "Never mind, sir. Perhaps you can tell me some other 
time." 

H. "No, no. Don't go yet. I can't wait. I must tell 
you now. I — I — . Say, Miss Eva, she isn't very far from 
here.-" 

E. "Oh, she lives in this neigh.borhood, I suppose?" 

H. "Yes, yes; and, oh, Miss Eva, I will say it. Don't get 
mad at me. It's youl" 

E. "Me? Good, gracious, sir. I would never have 
thought it. What ever put such a notion in your head? I 
don't want to get married." 

H. "To no one?'' 

E. "No, certainly not." 

H. "I thought all girls wanted to get married.'' 

E. "No indeed." 

H. "Then, you wouldn't have me at all?" 

E. "Of course not. Who has been teasing you? Did Sam 
put you up to this?" 

.H. "No, not exactly. I was talking to him about it, and 
he said the only way to find out was to ask you." 

E. "Well, you have asked me and found out. The next 
time you see Sam, thank him for me, and tell him I am not on 
the market yet. Good day, sir." 

H. "Good day. Miss Eva. I hope you aint mad at me?" 

E. "No, no." 

Eva departs. 

H. "I can't get her. She won't have me. I'll never ask 
another girl, never! I'll go single all my life first. Confound 
that Sam! I'll just bet he knew she wouldn't have me. If I 



KUHGIVEX. 37 

don't get even witli him, it will be because I can't. I — hello, 
there comes the old gypsy. I wonder who she's a hunting?" 

Gypsy Madge approaches. 

M. ''Numbskull, did ye see her.''" 

H. "Who.^" 

M. "Fool, why do ye ask.-* She came this way." 

H. "Miss Eva, you mean.'"' 

M. "Aye: which way did she go.'" 

H. "Right through the woods there, i reckon. ] didn't 
watch her." 

Madge departs. 

H. "What an awful looking woman that old gyi^sy is get- 
ting to be. I'd bet she's a hundred years old. Ge whizz! 
But I'd hate to have her get mad at me. Them old eyes of 
her's gleam like coals. 1 wonder what she wants of Miss Eva.' 
Well, I guess I might as well go over to the cornfield and see 
if I can find Sam." 

Hiram departs. Vivian conies up, 

V. "Eva! Eva!" 

E. "Yes, Vivian." 

Eva returns. 

V. "I was at"raid I couldn't find you." 

E. "No danger, I hope. Has mother sent for me?" 

V. "Yes; she wants you to come to the house. Mrs. 
Patch is there to spend the afternoon." 

E. "Very well. I will go at once." 

V. "Isn't she a funny looking woman?" 

E. "Yes; we often tease Sam about her appearance. We — " 

V. "Oh, Eva, I am afraid. There comes that awful gypsy 
again." 

E. "Never fear. She won't harm you." 

Madge comes up. 

M. "Child, can I never find ye?'' 



38 FORrJlVE>ir. 



E. "I trust so, Madge. I did not know you were looking, 
for me." 

M. "Aye; for hours. Tell me, are ye yet heart-free?" 

E. "Yes; Madge." 

M. ''Ye will not be long. He will speak soon. Is he 
back yet." 

E. "No." 

M. " 'Tis well. I wished to see ye again before ye met. 
Last night, I dreamed of the dead." 

Eva gazes at Madge as if in awe. Her voice grows tremu- 
lous. 

E. "Of— of Vivian?" 

M. "Aye; I saw her as plainly as I now see ye. She 
stepped toward me from the grave. The awful pallor was 
still upon her, but the sorrow was gone from her face." 

E. "Did she speak?" 

M. "Once only. Pleadingly, entreatingly she came up to 
me, and as warningly she pointed to yer home, her lips moved, 
and I caught the sound of a name." 

E. "Whose, Madge? Tell me, whose?" 

M. "The one who left her; the one who broke her heart; 
the one who seeks ye now!" 



CURTAIN. 



FOKGIVEX. ^V' 



ACT III. SCENE 1. 

The woods. Eva, on a rustic seat, with ;i l)Ook. Reads 
aloud . 

E. " 'Whenever his name was heard, 
Her young heart thrilled; 
Forgetting herself — her sorrow, 

Her dark eyes filled; 
She loved him yet! 
The flower the false one gave her, 

When last they met; 
Is yet sacred to her — 

Is still with her wild tears wet. 

His favorite songs. 

She sings — she heeds no other; 
With all her wrongs, 

She loved — she loved him yet!' " 

Sam comes up unperceived. Halts. 

E. "Loved yet! The words are sorrowful but true. Many 
a poor girl has a sad fate— sad as Vivian's. Does love always 
bring sorrow I wonder? Are men always false?" 

S. "No; bet your life they aint." 

Eva starts. 

E. "Sam!" 



40 FOKOIYEX. 

S. "Didn't mean to make you jump — didn't for a fact; but 
couldn't help answering that (juestion. Say, Miss Eva?" 

E. "Well." 

S. "How's Hiram?" 

E. '"Sam, be ashamed of yourself!" 

S. "Why?" 

E. "You know it was wrong to trick him so. You should 
never tease the poor boy." 

S. "I didn't. He asked me how to propose, and I told 
him. There wasn't anything wrong about that, I'm sure." 

E. "You must never do so again. I don't want to get of- 
fended at you." 

S. "Why, Miss Eva, you couldn't get mad at me if you 
tried." 

E. "Don't be to sure of that." 

S. "I am sure of it, all the same; but say, is that city chap 
back yet?" 

E. "No." 

S. "He's coming soon, ain't he?" 

E. ''Yes; to-day, perhaps." 

S. "Hes changed a good deal. He ain't a bit like he used 
to be. I saw him one morning and had a talk with him. He 
was crying by her grave." 

E. "Sam, he loved her." 

S. "Didn't think so once, but it looks like it now. Con- 
sarn him, I can't help but feel kind of sorry for him." 

Vivian's voice sounds near. 

V. "Eva! Eva!" 

E. "That is Vivian calling me. I expect she has found 
some vine or tree which she wishes to know the nami? of. 
Coming, Vivian!" 

S. "Mice little girl, ain't she?" 



FOIIUIVEX. 41 

E. "Yes; we enjoy her company very much. She is de- 
lighted with the country, and never tires of the woods. Won't 
you come and have a talk with her?" 

S. "Not now; haven't time, liring her over to our house 
some day." 

E. "Very well. By the way, I forgot to ask you. How is 
Mrs. Patch?" 

S, "All right, 1 guess. Haven't heard her complain. 
She's been a taking some new fangled kind of medicine lately 
to try to reduce her flesh." 

E. "Sam, how much does she weigh, anyhow?" 

S. "Three hundred and six. She's gained fifty pounds in 
the last year." 

E. "Oh, my! How large do you think she will get?" 

S. "Now you've got me a guessing. It's hard to tell. 
There wasn't a slimmer little girl in this part of the country 
than she was when I married her. Didn't think she'd ever 
get to be big as an elephant. Guess the chap that once said 
marriage was'a lottery in more ways than one, was about right." 

E. "Yes; well I must go now, or Vivian will become im- 
patient." 

Eva turns as if to depart. 

S. "Oh, say. Miss Eva, I forgot to tell you." 

E. "What?" 

S. "1— I — . Consarn it, can't I think? Oh, yes; I re- 
member now. Say, how's Hiram?" 

E. "Sam!" 

Eva departs. 

S. "Fine girl, that. She makes me think of Vivian every 
time I look at her. Never saw two girls so much alike. Hope 
to goodness, she'll never come to such an awful fate. Wonder 
if the old gypsy was right in thinking that chap would set his 



42 Fr)E(iIVKX. 

cap for her? I've watched close but I haven't seen any sign 
of it yet." 

Hiram appears. 

H. "Hello, Sam!" 

S. "Hello, yourself!" 

H. "I'm glad I came this way. I've been a wanting to 
see you." 

S. "Oh, you have, have you.' Thought you looked as if 
you had something on your mind. Bet I can guess what it is. 
Say, old chap, did you see her.^" 

H. "Yes." 

S. "Tried your luck.'" 

H. 'Yes." 

S. "What did she say?" 

H. ''That she didn't want to marry." 

S. "Did she give you any hope?" 

H. "Not a bit. It's no use to think of her any more. I 
can't get her/' 

S. "I wouldn't be so cast down about it, if I was you." 

H. "Why?"" 

S. "Do you want me to tell you something you don't 
know?" 

H. "Yes; of course." 

S. "You don't understand girls as well as I do. They 
always say 'no' when they mean 'yes.' " 

H. "Oh, Sam, aint you a joking about that?" 

S. '*Not a bit. It's a fact." 

H. "Honest truth?" 

S. "Yes; honest truth. If I was you, I'd ask her again. 
It wouldn't do any harm, anyhow." 

H. "Sam, if I thought that you wasn't trying to fool me, I 
believe I would," 



FOROIVKX. 43 



S. "Try it. Lookl Now's your chance; that's her coining. 
I'll get away so you can have u clear field." 

H. "You'll never tell.'" 

S. "N^o, of course not. Now go ahead." 

Sam moves away and hides behind a tree. Eva comes up. 

H. "Say, Miss Eva.'" 

E. "Well, sir." 

H. "I want to ask you another question." 

E. "What is it.'^' 

H. "Do girls ever say no when they mean yes?" 

E. "Not often I guess. Why.'" 

H. "I've been a talking to Sam, and he said they did. I 
didn't believe it, but I thought I'd ask you. You never do, 
do you?" 

E. "No indeed. Sam's bees teasing you again. I told 
you not to listen to him." 

H. ''I won't again. I don't like the way he's acted of late. 
1 hope you won't ever say anything about the little talk w^ 
had. I don't want it known." 

E. "No; you can trust me. But look! Isn't that Sam 
over there?" 

S. "Hiram! Hiram!" 

H. "Yes, and consarn him, he's a laughing and making 
fun of me too. Just wait 'till I catch him!" 

S. *'Say, Hiram, did she say yes?" 

H. "Consarn you!" 

Sam turns and runs, pursued by Hiram. 

E. "Poor fellow! Sam ought to be ashamed of himself 
for fooling him so. It's mean in him. I'll give him another 
talking to the next time I see him.'' 

Vivian comts up. 



44 FOliaiVEX, 



\'. "Oh, Eva, look at that tall vine with red flowers on it. 
What is it?" 

E. "A wood bine — a wild honeysuckle." 

Y. "Isn't it lovely.^" 

E. "Yes; but you must be careful and never touch the 
flowers. They are poisonous.'" 

Y. "Isn't it too bad. 1 wish they were not. ^Vhy, look! 
Here comes papa." 

emerald approaches. A'ivian runs to meet him, 

G. "Hello, my pet, 'how are you.'" 

\'. "fust as well as can be." 

G. "Having a nice time, I hope?" 

Y. "A fine time, papa. Just think! I can milk the cow, 
feed the chickens, ride the pony, and I go blackberrying with 
Eva every morning," 

G. "W'ell, well; you surely are getting to be iiuite a little 
country girl.'' 

\'. "Indeed I am, papa; indeed I am," 

Ct. "Well, 1 ani glad to find that you are enjoying yourself 
so well. I hope you always will. Here is a new book I have 
brought you. I think you will like it. It is full of pictures." 

Y. "Oh, thank you, papa.'' 

Yivian takes the book, ^ierald turns toward Eva. She is 
dressed in pink — the same color worn by his lost love when 
they first met. In the space of time of a heart-beat, almost, 
as he looks upon her, the past comes back to him. Again he 
sees Yivian in the woods, in all her innocence and loveliness, 
with the flowers in her hands. He remembers how timidly 
her eyes were raised to his in their shy surprise — how sweetly 
her voice sounded. But memory cannot be checked. The 
scene fades away — changes to another. He sees her again. 
Again she is in the woods and coming toward him. Beyond 



F()H(.1\KN, -la 

is the gliding waters of the river. No Hglit of hapi-uness is in 
her dark eyes now — only a look of vacancy. Her form is 
more fragile — her face like death. The pink dress is gone — 
in its place, one of dee})est !>lack. Over her shoulder, in 
striking (Contrast, and as if in mockery of love's fond dream, is 
a bunch of flowers that will always seem to liim as a fatal 
emblem of lost happiness — a cluster of wild roses. She 
{)asses him by, but she sees him not. Wildly he calls her 
name, but in vain. Reason is gone forever. From her lips 
float the words of a song — a mournful melody, plaintive with 
life's heartaches. 

G. "Back again, Eva.'' 

E. "Yes. We were ex[)ecting you. Oh, sir, what is the 
matter?" 

With the face of the dead girl before him, he c.las[)s the 
hand of the living in greeting. Then his voice fails him, and 
for a moment he reels back, with paling face. If mental suf- 
fering, if remorse of conscience, can avenge, then the girl he 
had loved — the girl he had given up for gold — poor, forsaken 
Vivian, is surely being avenged. 

G. "Xothing — nothing. Forgive me for startling you. It 
was only a memory. The past came back so vividly that for 
a moment my heart failed me. Once Vivian welcomed me as 
you have now." 

Madge comes up. (xazes at him wildly. 

M. "Haunted! Haunted! The dead is before ye still. 
The curse is upon ye, and ye cannot escape. Wretch, I told 
ye ye should never forget — I told ye ye should suffer — suffer 
to the grave!" 

ACT III. SCENE n. 

The woods. Sam comes up. Pauses, searching his pockets. 
S. "Consarn the luck! Lost as sure as fate. Just what I 



4« FORGIVEX. 



expected. I told Mariah if she didn't fix that pocket, that 
I'd lose something, sure." 

Mrs. Patch appears. 

Mrs, P. "Samuel!" 

S. "Yes; come here." 

Mrs. P. "Samuel, what is the matter.?" 

S. "Matter enough, and it's all your fault. J told you a 
dozen times that I wanted my pocket fixed, and you never 
touched it." 

Mrs. P. "Have you lost something, Samuel?" 

S. "Of course. What did you think was the matter, if I 
hadn't.?" 

Mrs. P. "What was it, Samuel?" 

S. "What do you reckon? My tobacco of course. Two 
miles from town and not a bit left. What do you think of 
that? How do you suppose I'm going to get along all this 
forenoon without it?'' 

Mrs. p. "I don't know, Samuel. Where did you lose it?" 

S. "How do you think I know? Somewhere between here 
and the house, I suppose. You needn't look for it. You 
couldn't find it. It would be like hunting a needle in a hay- 
stack. The next time I ask you to fix my pocket, and you 
don't do it, there'll be trouble. I can stand a good deal, but 
when I do get riled, you'd better look out." 

Mrs P. "I am sorry, Samuel. I forgot it. I — " 

Hiram comes up. 

H. "Howdy, Sam!" 

S. "Hello, there, Hiram. If this aint luck, I don't know 
what is. You're just the chap I want to see." 

H. "Why?" 

S. "Had a little mishap a while ago, and you can help me 
out of it." 

H. "How?" 

S. "Got any tobacco about you?" 



FUUGIVEX. 47 

H. "Yes; just bought a plug this morning. Aint used a 
bit of it yet." 

S. "Good! Let me have a chew, won't you.^ Lost mine 
awhile ago, and I'm about starved." 

H. ''If I do, you mustn't take too big a bite. You know 
tobacco costs a heap of money, Sam." 

S. "Don't be afraid. I vv'on't." 

H. "Here it is, then. Now be careful, Sam." 

Hiram hands him the tobacco. Sam takes a chew, and 
coolly puts the rest in his pocket. Hiram looks aghast. 

S. "That tastes like something. Puts new life into a 
fellow. Much obliged to you, Hiram. LU try and reciprocate 
soai.e time if I don't forget it." 

H. "Say, hold on there, Sam. What do you mean.' Don't 
take it all." 

S. "Never mind, Hiram. That's all right. Good day. 
I'll see you later. Got to go to work now." 

Sam turns and moves away. Hiram starts after him. 

H. "Sam! Sam!" 

The tobacco drops from Sam's pocket. Mrs. Patch see it 
fall. Beckons to Hiram. 

Mrs. P. "Mr. Hastings!" 

Mrs. Patch points to the tobacco. Hiram picks it up quick- 
ly and pockets it. Both laugh. Sam turns. 

S. "What's up now.' What you all laughing at'" 

Mrs. P. "Oh, nothing, Samuel." 

H. "Nothing at all, Sam." 

S. "I know better. You can't fool me." 

Sam searches his pocket, and finds the tobacco gone. 

S. "Why, consarn it all, if I didn't forget and go and put 
that tobacco in the same pocket, and its dropped out, and 



^S FORGIVEX. 

you've got it again. Mariah, why didn't you keep stili? He'd 
never have seen it if you hadn't told him." 

Mrs. P. "Oh, Samuel, I couldn't help it." 

S. "Never mind. I'll pay you back. I'll get even; see if 
I don't. All right, Hiram. That's one on me sure, but it 
will be my laugh next. Say, Hiram?" 

H. "'Well." 

S. "How's Miss Eva?" 

H. "Oh, Sam, you keep still. You promised me you 
wouldn't tell." 

S. "I won't. Don't be afraid. Say, Hiram, aint she awful 
sweet?" 

H. "Oh, Sam! ^' 

S. "Don't you wish you could get to kiss her?" 

H. "Oh, Sam, please don't. I — ." 

Madge comes up. 

M. "Let the numbskull alone, can't ye? Why do ye trifle 
when danger is at hand?" 

S. "Danger of what, old lady?" 

M. "Ye know well enough. Didn't I warn ye? Didn't I 
tell ye to watch — watch?" 

S. "(juess I have." 

M. "Fool, are ye blind? He is winning her right before 
yer eyes." 

S. "Old lady, I don't believe it." 

H. "Sam, who is she a talking about?" 

S. "Miss Eva, and that city chap." 

H. "Oh, Sam, he aint a going with her is he?'' 

S. "That's what she says. She — " 

Eva's voice, raised in song, sounds in the woods. 



FOlKnVKX. 

E. " 'Once I had looked on her rosy cheeks, 
And her lips so full and bright; 
Once I had wondered if man's cold love, 
Oould con(|uer a iieart so lii;ht. 

Now 1 know why her face vvas pale — 

Why her eyes with tears were wet; 
She had listened to love's false tale, 

And it's memories saddened yet.' 

Madge turns wildly to Sam. 

M. "D'ye liear that? She is in the woods. She is com- 
ing to meet him! Coward, how can ye stand idle while he 
lures her on — -on to doom?' 



ACT III. SCENE III. 

Eva's home. Tune, twilight. Eva steps outside, singing: 

E. " 'It is the hour when from the boughs. 
The nightingale's high note is heard; 
It is the hour when lover's vows. 

Seem sweet in every whispered wcjrd.' " 

Pauses. 

E. "Lover's vowsl Fond indeed they must seem to a 
young girl. I wonder if they will ever be mine?" 

Pauses. 

E. "Gerald can not care for me. His heart is in Vivian's 
grave. Why do I love him? Wliy has he grovv-n so dear' 
Surely — " 

Mrs. Vane appears in the doorway. 

Mrs. V. "Eva!" 

E. "Yes; mother." 



FOKHIVKX. 



Mrs. V. "Uon't stay outside long. The night air is damp 
and chill. You are not strong, and you must be careful." 

E. "1 will come in soon." 

Mrs. V. "Don't forget it." 

E. "No; mother." 

Mrs. Vane disappears. 

E, "Poor mother! She is always watching over me. I 
suppose it is because of Vivian that makes her so careful." 

Sam comes up. 

S. "Ih that you, Miss Eva'" 

E. "Ves." 

S. "Couldn't see you plainly, but thought It was." 

E. "You are late, Sam." 

S. "Ves; got the field nearly done at (juitting tune and 
stayed to hnish it. , Was afraid it might rain before morning." 

E. "Perhaps." 

-S. "Sa)', Miss Eva, I'm going to ask you a question." 

E. "Well." 

S. "What's the matter with you of late.'"' 

E. "Matter.^ Why, nothing, Sam. What do you mean.'" 

S. "Vou don't seem like yourself. Aint you worrying 
about something.'" 

E. "Vo." 

S, "Look here, Miss Eva, I've always been a friend to 
you, haven't 1?" 

E. "Ves." 

S, "Always tried to advise \ou for the best.'" 

E. "Yes." 

S. "Answer me this, then. Hasn't that city chap talked 
love to you.'" 

E. "No; Sam." 

S. "Never hinted it.'" 

E. "No, indeed. Why do you ask?'' 



K01{(;iVKX. ni 

S. "The gypsy thought he had. I told her she was mis- 
taken, but slie wouldn't believe me. If he ever should talk 
sweet to you, I want you to rememi)er one thing." 

E. "What is that, Sam.'" 

S. "The way he treated Miss Vivian." 

E. "I'll not forget it. Do not worry about me. Did you 
go for the mail, this morning.''" 

8. "(jreat goodness, yes; and got a letter for you, too. For. 
got all about it." 

E. "Oh, Sam!" 

S. "Never once tliought of it 'till this minute. Here it is 
and I'll go, so you can read it. Hope you won't blame me. 
Sorry I kept it so long." 

E. "Never mind, Sam." 

Sam departs. Eva steps to the light of the doorway ar.d 
opens the letter. 

E. "From Gerald! What can it mean.'" 

Reads letter aloud. 

E. " 'Eva: — Urgent business compels me to return to the 
city at once. Will be over this evening to bid you good bye. 
This has been my happiest summer since your sister was with 
me, but if I had known you were so like her, I should never 
have came back. Then I dreaded to leave on her account; now 
it is because of you. After my falsity to her, you can never 
care for me, but when I am gone, I hope you may sometimes 
think of me with pity, (xerald.' " 

Eva clasps the letter passionately. 

E. "He loves me! It is no dream! The gypsy's words 
are coming true. He — ." 

Gerald comes up. Halts before her. Softly he speaks her 
name. 

(x. "Eva!" 

E. "Oh, Gerald, what do you mean.'" 

G. "That you have won my heart." 



E. "Gerald, you s;iid you loved her. How can you love 
mc?" 

Cj. "]5ecause you are like her. Eva, I have realized only 
too well that it was in vnin for me to care for )'0u, but I could 
not help it. You have her face, her form; all these weeks you 
have looked at me with her eyes — spoken to me with her 
voice, and e\en as I once loved her 1 now love you," 

Love words for another: Has he forgotten.' No; it is be- 
cause she is so like. 

E. "Oh, Gerald, tliis seems a dream — a happy dream. I 
cannot understand it. Tell me again, you love mel' 

(;. "Eva, I do!" 

As he clasps her in his arms, Mrs. Vane appears in the 
doorway. Stands for an instant like one dazed, then reels 
back with a bitter cry.' 

Mrs. V. "Oh, Heaven,- 1 never ihiought of thisi Again he 
wins my child!" 

E. "Oh, mother! Mother!". 

Grerald and Eva spring forward, Gerald clasping Mrs. Vane's 
falling form. Madge appears. Rushes up to him, dagger in 
hand, and raises her arm to strike. 

M. "Curse ye, ye shall never have her — never!" 

E. "Gerald! Gerald!" 

Eva screams wildly, and springs between them. Sam ap- 
pears. Rushes up and grasps the gypsy's arm. 

S. "Hold on, old lady, hold on! W'e aint ready for murder 
here vet. Hold on, I sav!" 



CURTAIN. 



lOKfiiVKX. 



ACT IV. SCENE I. 

The woods. Eva, standing in a despondent altitude, alone. 

E. "Why is this world so cruel? What have I done that 
sorrow should come to me.'' Must I give him up or break her 
heart.^" 

Pauses. Clasps her hands appealingly. 

E. ''Father in Heaven, hear me! Pity me,. and guide my 
steps aright. 1 know not what to do." 

Mrs Vane comes up. 

Mrs. V. "Eva, don't give way like this." 

E. "Mother, I cannot help it." 

Mrs. V. "Oh, child, don't make my life more sorrowful. 
Don't blame me. I want to do what is best." 

E. "Mother, I know it." 

]\Irs. V. "If I coiild trust hini, I would never refuse you. 
But how can I know' He might be as false to you as to her. 
I am afraid — afraid." 

E. "Mother, I cannot doubt him." 

Mrs. V. "Neither could she. She trusted in him until 
the blow fell. Oh, Eva, much as I love you, I would rather 
you had died m your infancy than ever to meet her f:ite." 

Sam comes up. 

S. "Gracious goodness! This is awful. You look as down 
hearted as if you hadn't a friend left. Can't you cheer up?'' 



54 FOROIVEX. 



Mrs. V. "Oh, Sam, she will not listen to me. That man* 
has won her heart as he once did Vivian's." 

S. "Sorry to hear it. Didn't think he could. He may 
mean all right now, but I wouldn't trust him for this wide 
world, if I was her." 

E. "Sam, he has never harmed-you. Don't speak against 
him ." 

S. '1 wouldn't if I wasn't afraid that he'd — '' 

E. "Hush, 1 beg of you. Don't talk about him now. 
Don't you see? His child is coming." 

S. "Guess you're right. Well, talking won't help matters 
anyhow. If you're bound to have him and take your chances, 
we can't help it. Look at them clouds, will you! I'd better 
get to work if I get anything done this afternoon. There'll be 
a thunder storm before an hour.'' 

Mrs. V. "Do you think it is that near?" 

S. "Yes." 

Mrs. V. "I expect I had better go to the house, then. 
Eva, watch the sky, and don't stay in the woods long." ' 

E. "Never fear, mother." 

Sam and Mrs. Vane depart. Hiram comes up. 

H. "Oh; Miss Eva?" 

E. "Well, sir." » 

H. "I'd like to know if its true?" 

E. "If what is true?" 

H. "Sam's just been telling me that you've changed your 
mind, and want to get married." 

E. "Didn-'t I tell you never to pay any attention to Sam? 
You must not believe a word he says. He's only teasing you." 

H. "It aint so, then, is it?" 

E. "No, no. Will you do me a favor, sir?" 

H. "Why of course I will if I can." 



VOKGIVEX. Ti]i 

E. "(io from here at once, then. Find Sam as quickly as 
possible, and tell him if he ever says another such thing about 
me, that I'll never speak to him again. Will you go?" 

H. '*Yes; but I hope you aint mad at rae. I didn't mean 
to say anything out of the way. I — " 

E. "No, no, sir." 

Hiram departs, saying: 

H. "(re whiz/i! She says she aint mad, and of course jhe 
aint, for she wouldn't tell a story, but I'd like to know why 
she wants me to go so quick for?" 

Vivian comes up. 

V. "What an odd looking boy. Who is he?" 

E. "His name is Hiram Hastings. He is good hearted, 
but not very strong minded. Sam teases him unmercifully. 
I feel sorry for him." 

V. "That is wrong in Sam, isn't it." 

E. "Yes; indeed." 

V. "Look F^.'a! The clouds have shut in the sun. Is it 
going to rain?" 

E. "Yes; a storm is gathering." 

Madge comes up. 

M. "Child, why d;; ye linger? Can't ye see? A storm is 
at hand." 

E. "We are going soon, Madge." 

M. "Ye must hurry. It's coming fast. Soon the red 
lightniwg will leap from cloud to cloud, and thunder answer 
thunder. Soon the mad winds will sweep wildly in. Child, 
it will be grand, but awful — awful!" 

E. "You seem to think it will be a bad storm, Madge?" 

M. "Aye; the clouds have a fearful look. See, thunder 
cap boils over thunder cap." 



m vcnicwKs. 

E. "Come to the house, Madge. It won't be safe for you 
in the woods." 

M. *'I will soon; but don't ye wait for me. I left my staff 
by the bridge. I must get it first." 

E. "Uon't be long." 
- M. "No, no, child" 

Madge departs- The skies darken. Distant thunder be- 
gins to sound. 

V. "Oh, Eva, look at the river! How high the waters are 
getting. They will soon be across the road 

E. "Yes; there have been heavy rains north, and they are 
rising fast. Come, we must hurry. It is beginning to thun- 
der now." 

V. "Look at the birds! See how wildly they are flying. 
Do they know that a storm is coming.'^" 

E. "Yes; nature warns them. See, Sam has been watch- 
ing too, and has quit work. The horses are running toward 
the barn." 

V. "Will Madge be caught.'" 

E. "I hope not. I wish she would hurry. Look! Mother 
is in the doorway, watching for us. She is afraid vv'e will be 
late." 

V. "She seems so good to you, Eva." 

E. "She is good." 

V. 'You will always love- her, won't you?" 

E. "Yes; always." 

V. "I cannot remember mamma, but I know I would have 
loved her if she had lived. I — listen, Eva; your mother is 
calling you now.'' 

ACT IV. SCENE II. 

Eva's home. Mrs. Vane alone, walking restlessly. 



F(:>i?(;iVK:N. '7 

Mrs V. '"How dark it is getting to bl^ 'I'h.ere surely will 
he a storm. I wish the girls were here." 

Pauses, (ioes to the door, and gazes outside. 

Mrs. V, "The clouds fly fast. Ht)\v wild they look. 1 
never saw an angrier sky." 

Pauses. 

Mrs. V. "Why don't they comt? Eva surely knows better 
than to slay in the woods so long." 

i'auses. 

Mrs. V. "What shall I di\' No sign of them yet, and — 
yes, they are in sight — they are coming at last. Hurry, Kva, 
hurry!" 

rCva's voice sounds outside. 

E. "Coming, mother, coming!" 

Eva and Vivian enter the house. The storm commeirces. 
Mrs. Vane closes the door. 

Mrs. V. "Oh, Eva, you have frightened me terribly. AVhy 
did you stay so long.''" 

E, "We have not been long mother. It came up so quick- 
ly, we had but little time." 

V. ' We almost run, didn't we, Eva.'' 

E. "Yes, indeed." 

Mrs. V. "Listen! You were none to soon. The rain is 
coming now. fiow wildly the wind roars." 

E. "Poor Madge! She has surely been caught. There 
isn't another house she could reach." 

Mrs. V. "Oh, Eva, you don't mean that she is out in this.'" 

E. "Yes, she was just behind us when we crossed the 
bridge. She stopped to hunt her staff." 

Mrs. V. "You surely didn't forget to ask her to come to 
the house.''" 

E. "No, indeed.' 

Vivian turns to Eva. 



ftS FOKOIVEV. 

V. "Oh, Eva, how awful the vvind blows. I am afraid." 

E. "Never fear. We are as safe here as anywhere." 

Y. "Will (iod protect us.'" 

E. "Yes." 

The door is dashed open. Sam enters. Throws a blanket 
from his shoulders. Shakes his dripping garments. 

¥.. "Sam!" 

S. ''Ge whizzi But aint it a corker.'" 

Mrs. Y. "Oh, Sam, \'Ou are soaking wet." 

S. "Reckon I am. You couldn't expect a fellow to l)e 
outside a minute and not be could you.' Ne*'er saw it rain 
like this before. It's putting it down by the bucketfull." 

E. "Sam, have you seen Madge.'" 

S. "The gypsy! (xood gracious, no. You don't mean to 
say she's out in this.'" 

E. "Yes, we left her near the bridge." 

S. "Well, I always thought that old lady had nine lives 
like a cat, but if she lives through this, I guess she'll go the 
nine one better. Just listen. Cioodness, but aint it awful." 

Mrs. Y. "Did you get the horses put up in time?" 

S. "Yes; 1 saw them clouds a rising and I didn't like their 
look. By the way they boiled up, I knew it was a coming fast. 
I didn't wait long, after the thunder began to grumble but 
made a bee line for the barn, (iuess the horses must have 
scented it in the air for they started on a lope. Couldn't hold 
them back. Strange how them dumb creatures c;an always 
tell when a storm is coaling. Never knew them to miss it yet." 

E. "Sam, don't you think Mrs. Patch will be terribly 
frightened.'" 

S. "Spect she will, but I can't help it. You know I could 
not get home. Guess she's as safe as any of us, 'though." 

Mrs. V. "I wonder if the bridge will be washed away?" 



FOlJGiVEX. .nil 

S. "Like as not. It aint high, and the river's been a 
rising since morning. I'll bet its a tearing like mad by this 
time." 

Eva steps to the window, and gaz.es outside. 

Mrs. V. ''Keep away from the window-, child. The light- 
ning will blind you " 

E. ''Uh, mother, the mill dam has burst away. The 
bridge is gone. The whole river bottom is a raging torrent." 

S. "'(Ireat goodness!" 

Mrs. V. "Eva, it cannot be." 

E. "It is mother Won't you look? There is — ." 

A heavy rap sounds on the door. 

Mrs. V. "Eva. quick, there is some one at the door." 

£. "Yes, mother." 

Gerald's voice sounds outside. 

G. "Open, for the love of Heaven, open!''' 

V. "Oh, it is papa, papa." 

Eva opens the door. Gerald enters, carrying the motion- 
less form of Madge. 

E. "Gerald! Madge!" 

V. "Papa, papa!" 

S. "The gypsy, or I'm a sinner." 

Mrs. V. "Oh, sir. Is she dead.''" 

G. *'No, only dazed. She was struck by a falling limb." 

Gerald gently lowers the gypsy to the floor. All crowd 
around her. Eva supports her head. 

S. "How in the mischief did you ever manage to carry 
her.'" 

G. "J don't know. It was death to leave her. She was 
by the bridge." 

E. "Poor, poor Madge." 



Madi^e uioves sluwly. Her eyes open in a dazed kind of 
way. 

iM. '"Lost! Lost! 'I'he waters are coming, the bridge 
will gu. (t is death! Ueatli!'' 

v.. "Madge, Madge, look up. Au;u.>e yourself!" 

M. "I cannot die, I must not die. I must save the child. 
Help! Help!" 

Vivian tnrns to Gerald. 

T. "Oh, pa[)a, she thinks she is in the storm, yet." 

(; '^'es" 

E. '"Madge, won't you look.' It is I — Eva, who is with 
\ou. The danger is over. Vou are safe — safe." 

M. "Speak to me. again, child. Where am I?" 

f "Here, here. Madge!" 

Madge ga/.es wildly around. 

M. "I see ye ail, Lnit I cannot understand it. I was help- 
less. The waters were, sweeping toward me — the awful 
waters. Ugh! I can hear — I can see them yet. Tell, me 
how came 1 here?*" 

E. "Vou were brought here, Madge." 

Iv[. "By whom.'" 

Eva points to (lerald. 

E. "There is the one wliu saved you." 

M. "Child, not he?'' 

i:. "\'es." 

M. ".Strange — strange. I am bewildered. My brain 
reels.'' 

Turns wildly to (ierald. 

M. "Speak! Why did ye do it?- I hated ye, I cursed ye, 
1 tried to kill ye. Why lii'ied ye yer hand to save?" 

it. 'Woman. 1 will tell vou sometime." 



S'OKlilVKX. ^' 

M. "'Answer now. What has changed ye?' Yer falsity 
killed the one ye loved. Why saved ye the one ye hated?" 

(r. "Again I sav, I will tell you sometime." 

M. "\Vhen.= " 

(i. "When you no longer hate me. When the curse is 
lifted. When I am forgiveni" 



ACT IV. SCENE III. 

Tlie woods. Gerald alone, walking slowly to and fro. Still 
the memorv of his fatal mistake is upon him — still the shadow 
of the past hangs heavy above his soul. Another loved him 
— another who looked as she once looked, spoke as she once 
spoke, but alas! No other could ever be Vivian. 

G. "As a man sows, so must he reap. From the past, 
there is no escape. With her, I may again find happiness, 
but tjie curse of my falsity will haunt me to the grave." 

Pauses. »• 

G. "Oh, Vivian, my lost love, again I beg forgiveness. 
Don't think I am faithless to you memory — don't think I have 
forgotten. It is because she is so like." 

Vivian! Always Vivian! Ah, the pathos in the sound of 
his voice as he speaks that name! No thought of his dead wife, 
Edith, comes to him. In her grave she is still forgotten. He 
had never loved her, but he had tried to treat her kindly, for 
she was good and true. But marriage vows could not bind 
the heart, and through all their wedded life, even as now, his 



G-2 FOR(nVEX. 



mind was forever going back to the old woods and a girl's fair 
face — a girl's slender figure. 

G. " 'Oh, God, I cannot awaken — . 
I dream I know not how; 
And my soul is sorely shaken. 

Lest the dead who was forsaken, 
May not be happy now.' " 

Pauses. ]5ows his head in bitter thought. Was she con- 
scious still? Did his words reach her in the mystic unknown.^ 
Could she look upon him? Was she happy now? Eva comes 
up. Stands for a time gazing at him thoughtfully, then with a 
look of anxiety upon her face, goes up to him and lightly 
touches his arm. 

E. "Gerald, I am here!" 

He starts slightly at her touch, and his words aie low, al- 
most sad, as he turns and meets her ga> e. 

G. "Eva, I knew you would come." 

E. "Crerald, you did not hear me as I came up. You 
stood as if in reverie. 1 thought you looked unhappy. Have 
you been thinking again of — of Vivian?" 

G. "Yes." 

E. "Oh, Gerald, don't make a mistake. Are you sure I 
am dear to you? Are you sure you love me as you once loved 
her?" 

G. "I am." 

He looks tenderly down into her face as he speaks. Fair 
and sweet it is in all its girlish beauty — fair as was once the 
face of the dead. 

E. "As truly?" 

G. "Yes. "Do not tremble so, Eva. Have no fears. I 
oan ne;^ r forget her, but I assure you that you have taken 



KOUGIVEX. '"'^ 

her place in my heart. Come, sing one of her songs, won't 
you? To me there has never been another voice like hers and 
yours." 

E. "What shall it be?" 
G. ' "Only a Face." ' 
Eva sings. 

E. " 'Only a face in the wildwoods, 
Only a face, nothing more, 
Yet the look in the eyes as they meet mine, 

Still comes to me o'er and o'er. 
Only a word of greeting, 

Only a word — that was all. 
Yet all day in my heart it echoed, 
Like the sound of a lover's call. 
Only a smile of welcome, 
, Only a smile as I passed, 
But that smile shall be remembered, 
As long as my life shall last.' " 
G. "A sweet song and a sweet singer. No wonder the 
•words thrill me. I could listen to them forever." 
E. "Gerald, you love that song?" 

G. "Better than all others. But tell me, have you spoken 
again to your mother?" 

E. "Yes, but to no avail. I fear she will never forgive 
you.'' 

Madge comes up. 

M. "She shall forgive!" 

Gerald starts wildly. Never were words more unexpected. 

E. "Oh, Madge!" 

G. "Woman, what mean you?" 



(.i FOROJVEX. 

M. "This: Ye have repented; ye liave saftered, and for 
the sake of the living, I will lift the curse." 

(j. ''Woman, speak, tell rne? Has the liour come at lasi? 
Am 1 forgiven?" 

M. ''Aye, forgiven." 

Vivian conies up. 

V. "Papa! Papa!" 

G. "Yes, my child." 

V. "Papa, is it so? Do you indeed love Eva?" 

G. ''Fondly, fondly, my pet." 

V. "Oh, I am so glad! Now you won't take me away from 
here will you? We can all stay and live together, c.in't v\'e?" 

G. "Yes; always, I hope." 

Sam appears. 

E. "Sam!" 

S. "Yes, Miss Eva.'' 

E. "Oh, Sam, Madge has forgiven Gerald at last. Won't 
you?" 

S. "Sure. Couldn't hold back after the gypsy has spoken." 

Turns to (jerald. 

S. "Shake sir!" 

The two clasp hands. 

G. "Sam, this is indeed more than I ever expected. I 
shall never forget you for it. If we are not friends from this 
time on, it will not be my fault." 

S. "Never mind, sir. That's all right. Here comes the 
old lady. Let's see what she will say." 

Mrs. Vane appears. 

E. "Oh, mother come here. Madge has forgiven him and 
so has Sam. Won't you '? 

Vivian goes up to her. 



FORGIVEN. 



V. "Please, please, forgive my papa." 

Mrs. V. "Yes, yes. I may have been to unyielding. 
Perhaps it is best, and yet — yet — ." 

Turns to Gerald. 

Mrs. V. "Oh, sir, for a mother's sake, a mother whose 
daughter you once so wronged, I beg of you to be mercirul to 
my child." 

G. "As God is my Judge, I will." 

Mrs. Patch appears. 

Mrs. P. "Samuel!" 

S. "Yes, Mariah." 

Mrs. P. "Samuel, can I never find you.'" 

S. "Of course. Right this way, old lady, glad lo see you 

Hiram comes up. Gazes-disconsolately at Gerald and Eva. 

H. "And she told me, she didn't want to marry." 

M. "The numbskull! Why comes he here.?" 

S. "Guess we're all here, and everthing ail right." 

G. "Yes, for 1 am forgiven!" 

M. "Aye, Take her hand. It shall be yours now." 

Madge steps forward as Gerald takes Eva's hand. Her 
eyes are fixed full upon him. 

M. "Do ye love her as ye once loved the dead?" 

G. "I do." 

M. "Will ye be kind to her, faithful to her.' Will ye walk 
beside her as long as ye may live?" 

G. "I will" 

Gerald's tones are calm and steady as he answers, but 
even now, as he stands there with the hand in his of the fair 
girl beside him, there rises before him a lone tomb in the 
woods, a white slab with a name upon it — the name that love 



forgivp:n. 



and sorrow has immortalized for him — the never to be for- 
iiotten imme of Vivian. 

M. "So be it. The clouds are gone. The sunshine 
brightens. The dead coaies back to ye in the living, and 
though once I cursed ye, ye may yet be happy, for at last ye 
are forciven!'' 



CURTAIN. 
THE END. 



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